“I’ll do what I can,” Pendergast replied.
After a moment, Weiss relaxed. He released his grip on Pendergast’s wrist. “But be careful. Even today, such demons as Dr. Faust have their supporters… those who would guard the Nazi secrets, even beyond the grave.” And he tapped the arm of his wheelchair significantly.
Pendergast nodded. “I shall be careful.”
The passionate fit had passed, and Weiss’s face was calm and gentle once again. “Then all that remains is for us to have another drink — if you’re so inclined.”
“I am indeed. Please tell your wife that she mixes an excellent julep.”
“Coming from a man of the Deep South, that is a compliment indeed.” And the older man lifted the pitcher and refilled their glasses.
CHAPTER 50
New York City
DR. OSTROM’S OFFICE AT MOUNT MERCY HAD ONCE BEEN — rather fittingly, Esterhazy thought — the consulting chamber of the hospital’s “alienist.” It still bore traces of the building’s days as a private hospital for the wealthy: a large, rococo marble fireplace; elaborately carved moldings; leaded-glass windows, now fitted with steel bars. Esterhazy almost expected a butler in white tie to enter, sherry glasses balanced on a silver salver.
“So, Dr. Poole,” Felder said, leaning forward in his chair and placing the palms of his hands on his knees. “What did you think of this evening’s session?”
Esterhazy glanced back at the psychiatrist, taking in his eager, intelligent gaze. The man was so obsessed with Constance and the strange aspects of this case that it was blinding his professional objectivity and normally prudent nature. Esterhazy, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about Constance or her perversities, beyond her use as a pawn in his game. And not caring gave him a huge advantage.
“I thought you handled her with great tact, Doctor,” he said. “Refusing to address her delusions directly, but only within the context of a greater reality, is clearly a beneficial strategy.” He paused. “I have to admit quite frankly, when I first approached you about this case, I had my doubts. You know the long-term prognosis of paranoid schizophrenia as well as or better than I do. And my earlier treatment of her was, as I’ve explained, less than satisfactory. But I’d be the first to admit that, where I once failed, you are now succeeding — to a degree I’d never thought possible.”
Felder flushed slightly, nodded his thanks.
“Have you noticed that her selective amnesia has abated to some degree?”
Felder cleared his throat. “I have noticed that, yes.”
Esterhazy smiled slightly. “And it’s clear that this facility has played no small part in her progress. The welcoming and intellectually stimulating atmosphere of Mount Mercy has made a huge difference. In my opinion, it’s helped turn a very guarded prognosis into a rather more optimistic one.”
Ostrom, sitting in a nearby wing chair, inclined his head. He was more reserved than Felder, and — though clearly interested in the case — not obsessed with it. Esterhazy had to treat him with great care. But flattery was universally effective.
Esterhazy flipped through the chart Ostrom had provided, trying to pick out any nugget that might assist him. “I notice here that Constance seems to react to two activities with particular favor: library hours and recreational time spent on the grounds.”
Ostrom nodded. “She seems to have an almost nineteenth-century attraction to outdoor strolls.”
“It’s a positive sign, and one I believe we should foster.” Esterhazy put the folder aside. “Have you thought of arranging a day trip away from Mount Mercy, such as a walk through the botanical gardens, perhaps?”
Ostrom glanced at him. “I must confess I haven’t. Off-site trips normally require court approval.”
“I understand. You say ‘normally.’ But I believe that, under the medical rules, if Constance is determined by Mount Mercy to be no danger to herself or others, and furthermore if the outing is deemed medically necessary, no court ruling is required.”
“We rarely go that route,” Ostrom replied. “The liability is too great.”
“But think of the patient. The good of the patient.”
Here Felder chimed in, as Esterhazy hoped he would. “I wholeheartedly agree with Dr. Poole. Constance has demonstrated not one iota of aggression or suicidal ideation. Nor is she an elopement risk: quite the contrary. Not only would this reinforce her interest in outdoor activity, but surely you’d agree that such an expression of confidence on our side would be highly beneficial in getting her to lower her defenses?”
Ostrom considered this.
“I think Dr. Felder is absolutely correct,” said Esterhazy. “And on consideration I believe the Central Park Zoo would be an even better choice.”
“Even if no ruling is required,” Ostrom said, “because of her criminal conviction I would still have to get approval from a court officer.”
“That shouldn’t pose a serious impediment,” Felder replied. “I can go through channels, using my position with the Board of Health.”
“Excellent.” Esterhazy beamed. “And how long do you expect that to take?”
“A day, perhaps two.”
Ostrom took some time to answer. “I’d want you both to accompany her. And the outing should be limited to a single morning.”
“Very prudent,” Esterhazy replied. “Will you call me on my cell phone, Dr. Felder, once you’re made the necessary arrangements?”
“With great pleasure.”
“Thank you. Gentlemen, if you’ll forgive me for the moment — time waits for no man.” And, shaking their hands in turn, Esterhazy smiled and let himself out.
CHAPTER 51
THE MAN CALLING HIMSELF KLAUS FALKONER RELAXED on the sky deck of the Vergeltung. It was another mild afternoon and the Seventy-Ninth Street Boat Basin was quiet, somnolent under a late-fall sun. On a small table beside him rested a pack of Gauloises and an unopened bottle of Cognac Roi de France Fine Champagne, along with a single brandy snifter.
Pulling a cigarette from the pack, Falkoner lit it with a gold Dunhill lighter, took a deep drag, then gazed at the bottle. With exquisite care, he pulled the old, original nineteenth-century wax from the neck of the bottle, crumpled it into a ball, and dropped it into a pewter ashtray. The cognac shone in the afternoon sun like liquid mahogany, a remarkably dark and rich color for such a spirit. There were a dozen more bottles just like it laid down in the wine cellar in the Vergeltung’s belly — a tiny percentage of the spoils plundered by Falkoner’s predecessors during the occupation of France.
He exhaled, looking around with satisfaction. Another small percentage of those spoils — gold, jewelry, bank accounts, art, and antiques expropriated more than sixty years before — had paid for the Vergeltung. And a very special trideck motor yacht it was: one hundred and thirty feet LOA, twenty-six-foot beam, and six luxurious staterooms. The fuel capacity of fifty-four thousand gallons of diesel allowed the twin eighteen-hundred-horsepower Caterpillar engines to cross any ocean but the Pacific. This kind of independence, this ability to operate both beyond the law and below the radar, was critical to the work that Falkoner and his organization were engaged in.
He took another drag on the cigarette and crushed it out, only half smoked, in the ashtray. He was eager to sample the cognac. Very carefully, he poured out a measure into the tulip snifter, which — given the age and delicacy of the spirit — he’d chosen over the coarser balloon snifter. He gently swirled the glass, sampled the aroma, then — with delicious slowness — lifted it to his lips and took a tiny sip. The cognac bloomed on his palate with marvelous complexity, surprisingly robust for such an old bottle: the legendary “Comet” vintage of 1811. He closed his eyes, took a larger sip.